


Ode to a Nightingale

by orphan_account



Series: My Boys Need A Damn Break [5]
Category: I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV)
Genre: Baby, Francesco's a sweetheart, Giuliano deserved better, I love Giuliano more than I love myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 03:01:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20900570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk… /That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,/And with thee fade away into the forest dim.../ Now more than ever seems it rich to die,/To cease upon the midnight with no pain…- Ode to a Nightingale, John Keats-----Giuliano, Francesco pondered, was a Nightingale; free and unrestrained, he flew through life with his wings spread wide. Beautiful and unhindered by the burden of responsibility or cruel, cumbersome love. He did what he wanted with no care for the consequences (or at least it appeared that way- secretly, Francesco thought that most of Giuliano's actions weren't as thoughtless as they seemed).But then Simonetta came along and his beautiful wings were suddenly clipped. His world shifted to orbit hers with a devotion that made something hard and bitter curl at the back of Francesco's throat. It bit him, like thorns in his mouth, leaving it bloody and tangy with the taste of copper.





	Ode to a Nightingale

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is, but enjoy?  
Hopefully it's not as bad as I think lol

* * *

_ My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk… /That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,/And with thee fade away into the forest dim.../ Now more than ever seems it rich to die,/To cease upon the midnight with no pain… _

_ _ \- Ode to a Nightingale, John Keats _ _

* * *

Giuliano, Francesco pondered, was a Nightingale; free and unrestrained, he flew through life with his wings spread wide. Beautiful and unhindered by the burden of responsibility or cruel, cumbersome love. He did what he wanted with no care for the consequences (or at least it appeared that way- secretly, Francesco thought that most of Giuliano's actions weren't as thoughtless as they seemed). 

But then Simonetta came along and his beautiful wings were suddenly clipped. His world shifted to orbit hers with a devotion that made something hard and bitter curl at the back of Francesco's throat. It bit him, like thorns in his mouth, leaving it bloody and tangy with the taste of copper.

Lovely, sweet Simonetta whose beauty blinded her own husband to the woman beneath. It was a cursed golden shroud around her, seducing men without her consent. Even Giuliano was not immune to her bewitching beauty, though he, unlike others, was not blind to the beauty she possessed on a deeper level. He fell in love with the way she saw the world, the way she lived it, because with her he  _ felt _ . He felt wanted, and needed, in a way he hadn't before. 

(Francesco would never forgive himself for that, never forgive Lorenzo for allowing his brother to feel unneeded, replaceable. He was anything but.)

But a thing isn't beautiful because it lasts, and last Simonetta did not. 

The beautiful Nightingale was suddenly broken, clipped wings bloody with the pain of his loss. Grounded, mourning, Giuliano was a shade of the man he once was. Before, he was like a hurricane, wild, free, breathtaking, with Simonetta he was golden and joyful, rich with life and love. After, after Simonetta, after the cruel lesson of God's unyielding hand, he was a feral beast, raw and broken, drowning in melancholy and regret.

(And wine. Francesco had never seen him consume wine in such vast quantities, and it scared him. He was helpless in the face of his self destruction and it felt like a blade to his heart.)

"Giuliano."

Soft, cautious, he approached the slumped figure of the man as he might a cornered animal ready to strike. "Giuliano?" He hadn't meant to approach, but he'd just finished his meeting with Lorenzo, had given him the debts of his bank, praying to a God he didn't know if he believed in that it was the right decision, because Jacopo's words, though ignored, had struck a chord with him and he hadn't been able to shake their grip. He'd been leaving when he spotted Giuliano tucked away on his way, and his feet had carried him toward him before he could think.

Giuliano remained silent, his only movement the shaking of his shoulders as he sobbed, silent and heartbreaking. Perhaps he hadn't even realised Francesco was there. 

(He didn't usually take any interest in Francesco, even when they were children- it had all been about Lorenzo. Always Lorenzo, who burned like the sun, bright and blinding, drawing everyone in like a moth to a flame.)

"Pazzi."

Ah. So he was somewhat aware, then. 

The one word, a curse, a damnation, felt heavy in the air, weighed down by his drunken slur and grief he barely allowed himself to feel unless he was well and truly drunk. 

Francesco flinched, even if it were said without the usual bite, without the sharp sting of generations worth of bitterness and resentment. "Come," he said simply, offering a hand. "You need to sleep it off." 

He probably wouldn't even remember this in the morning, being so vulnerable. Even the wine didn't ease his pain anymore. It only allowed him the luxury of tears. Without it, he was blank, void of any emotion other than anger. 

"Do you think, if I drunk enough, I wouldn't wake to see tomorrow?" He raised his head to look to Francesco, eyes glazed and pained. Broken. "I think I'd like that," he added, and Francesco struggled to understand his words through his drunken slur. It thickened his words until they ran slow like honey, tumbling into and stumbling over each other. What Francesco did understand, though, almost stopped his heart.

"Giuliano," he soothed, somehow managing to keep his voice even against the sheer horror and fear those words insighted in his very core, threatening to choke him, squeeze the breath from his chest until his heart gave up from it all. Stepping closer, he placing a trembling hand on the man's shoulder. "Dying would solve nothing. You'll see her again, but in the meantime you need to  _ live. _ "

Giuliano blinked up at him. "I don't know  _ how _ ," he confessed in a breathy whisper. "I don't want to. She made my life  _ mean _ something."

Something softened in Francesco then, in the face of this man who needed comfort like a man needed air but refused to seek it with a stubbornness that rivaled Francesco's own, something he didn't even realised had hardened. "Then find meaning in your life again to honour that," he said softly, grabbing his hand and hauling him to his feet. 

Giuliano blinked as he allowed Francesco to wrap an arm around his waist, drawing him to his side to support him as they walked to his room. (He was a solid, maddening heat against Francesco's side, a bittersweet relief to the yearning that had long since settled in his heart for this beautiful, hurting man.)

"I loved her."

"Yes," Francesco agreed, setting the man on his bed. "I rather think you did."

"I  _ loved _ her. I didn't believe in love but that's what it was. Love."

Francesco gritted his teeth, remaining silent as he drew the covers up his chest. "Goodnight, Medici."

"Pazzi." Came the soft answer. "Thank you."

Francesco smiled, tinged with sadness. "You won't remember in the morning," he shrugged. "So I can rest easy, assured that come the morning my reputation shall remain firm."

A chuckle, and then a sigh, and then Giuliano's sounds dissolved into the soft snuffle of sleep. 

"Maybe we all need to find a little meaning in our lives," he sighed, watching the rise and fall of the sleeping man's chest for a few moments, enraptured by the peacefulness rest brought him.

(Maybe Francesco had already found his.)

* * *

_ And when the stars threw down their spears/And water’d Heaven with their tears:/Did He smile His work to see? _

_ _ \- The Tyger, William Blake _ _

* * *

Francesco couldn't sleep. He closed his eyes, embraced the darkness, but the image of Giuliano yearning death as he nursed his wine haunted him, was seared behind his eyelids. It was all he could see, all he could think of, and it engendered emotions that had his stomach restless. 

He was a Pazzi, he reminded himself. He shouldn't care about a Medici, whether it be Lorenzo, whose friendship he had always wanted, whom he had always admired, envied, or Giuliano, the man who soared through a life without meaning until it all came crashing down around him, leaving him bruised and irrevocably changed. 

He was a Pazzi.

And Pazzis and Medicis do not mix.

They cannot- there has been far too much bad blood between their families over the generations; far, far too much to ever hope to wipe away.

(But didn't Gugliemo and Bianca prove that wrong? Didn't they prove that they could put their families aside? That peace was not impossible, but instead an achievable dream? Did their matrimony not untie their two families, bring Francesco into something that was as close to a family he ever had since the loss of his parents? Did the sins of the past really need to stain present relations?)

His mind whirled, questions and doubts overlapping until they merged into one large and confusing muddle of Medici, which he found slightly fitting. 

Nothing was ever simple when it came to the Medici.

Despite himself, he smiled. 

* * *

_ O Rose, thou art sick./The invisible worm,/That flies in the night/In the howling storm:/Has found out thy bed/Of crimson joy:/And his dark secret love/Does thy life destroy. _

_ _ -The Sick Rose, William Blake _ _

* * *

Giuliano didn't mention that night, and so Francesco assumed, with a bittersweet relief, that it had been forgotten; lost. Their soft moment washed away in the lake of wine, forever buried under a drunken muddle of pain. So, he didn't mention it either. He maintained his abrasive, cold mask towards the man that owned his heart, stealing small, soft moments whenever he knew they wouldn’t be remembered. When everyone was drunk, except Francesco, and Giuliano was soft and rumpled, cheeks flushed with alcohol, smile momentarily unburdened when surrounded by the jovial laughs of his family. It was  _ then _ that Francesco struggled, felt his heart  _ ache _ with the need to reach out and touch. To offer a gentle caress, to feel that golden hair between his fingers. 

Instead he contented himself with fleeting touches, a hand at the elbow to steady him as he stumbled, the gentle press of the back of his hand to a heated forehead, suddenly clumsy fingers brushing away a sweat-clumped fringe. Each touch was a brand on his skin, one he knew he would carry for the rest of his miserable life. 

Giuliano remained as reckless as ever, perhaps even more so, now, and it the sight of him creeping through the Medici estate bloodied and bruised, often sheepish and limping, was becoming a too common event. For it was Francesco who found him, who helped him sneak past Lorenzo and Lucrezia and helped him out of blood-stained clothes, merciless in his cleaning of wounds. 

_ There _ , he would think, with no small amount of spite, with each of Giuliano’s winces.  _ See if that teaches you _ ., y _ ou stupid fool.  _

“Easy, easy, Pazzi,” he stuttered once, a good month after  _ that _ night as he lay on his stomach on his bed, moving his head to look at Francesco. “Surely even you could spare some compassion for a grieving man?” He offered a grin, eyes twinkling despite the twinge of pain that flared in them as Francesco prodded his side. 

“Perhaps, but not for an  _ idiot _ .”

He was shaking; both his hands and his voice. He inhaled deeply, fighting to even himself out. It was hard, when the beast inside had reared its ugly head at the sight of Giuliano, worse than he had ever seen him before. It wanted to punch him for being so  _ stupid _ , and then tear apart the world for hurting him. 

Francesco wasn’t ignorant to the irony- he was, afterall, one of those that had hurt him.

“There’s no need to be mean, ‘Cesco,” Giuliano huffed, cursing as Francesco moved his prodding finger to a bruise flowering on his back, spreading across his shoulder blades. 

“Don’t call me that,” he scowled, prodding harder. It was too familiar, made his stomach swoop, made him think of it whispered in the darkness of the night from the safe warmth of a lover’s embrace. Giuliano, however, would probably assume that it irritated him, which was probably for the best. 

(If only he  _ knew _ .)

He smirked. “So grouchy,” he tutted, voice playful and teasing. 

_ Too familiar, too friendly, what’s he playing at? _

“At least you weren’t stupid enough to let them break your ribs,” he sighed, stepping back and crossing his arms. “Your back’s a  _ mess _ , though. What the hell happened?”

Giuliano shrugged, wincing as it pulled on his shoulder. “Fell on the corner of a table,” he admitted, grinning wryly. “And then got got rammed into a wall. My shoulder took the brunt of that one.”

“Idiot.”

Giuliano’s grin turned knowing. “Careful, ‘Cesco, somebody might just think you  _ care _ .”

He huffed. “About you? Hardly. I’m more concerned about what your brother will say. Knowing my luck, he’ll find some way to blame it on me.”

Giuliano laughed; a real, full-bodied thing that sent Francesco’s heart skipping. “He would, too,” he sniggered. “Poor ‘Cesco,” he pouted, and Francesco didn’t even care that he was being mocked if it made Giuliano smile like  _ that _ . 

“Yes, indeed. Just make sure you’re more careful in future, yes? I don’t need to keep playing nurse with you, I have better things to do with my time.” 

(Lies- all lies. He’d never get tired of the feeling of his warm skin under his hands, of patching him up, making sure he was safe. He cared too much, _too damn_ _much.)_

“Of course.” And with that, Giuluano flopped onto his side, his back to Francesco, and Francesco was left to slink out, an all too-familiar bitter disappointment sharp in his gut. 

(But what did you expect? For him to ask you to stay?  _ Now _ who’s the idiot?)

* * *

_ Beauty is brief and violent… _

_ _ \- Beauty is brief and violent, Snehal Vadher _ _

* * *

“Francesco?”

“Bianca,” he greeted cautiously. “What can I do for you?”

She smiled, motioning for him to step into her room. Raising an eyebrow, he followed, his curiosity piqued. “I wanted to talk to you about Giuliano.”

He spluttered, his face warming as embarrassment and shock flowed under his skin. “There’s nothing to say,” he managed. 

Her face conveyed so much unadulterated doubt that he fell silent, horrified by how  _ motherly _ she had become.  “You care for him,” she said, gently. “There’s no need to deny it, it’s obvious.” 

“It’s really not-”

“You look at him like he’s your entire world. Whenever he enters the room he commands your attention; I have never seen you so careful around someone as you are him.” He swallowed, his eyes sliding from hers. “You even help him pretend he hasn’t been in another brawl when he stumbles in, bloodied and drunk. You’re fooling no-one, by the way,” she added with a small smile. 

“It’s not, I’m not, I don’t- I-”

He was panicking now; he could feel it nudge at his throat, a solid mass pressing against his chest, cooling his blood and churning his stomach. 

“Francesco, it’s okay,” she soothed, taking his hand in hers. “I’m not going to tell anyone, I’m just trying to tell you that you can  _ talk  _ to me about it. He’s my brother, and I care for him, but no-one’s been able to help him the way you have been able to. I’m grateful to you for that.”

“I haven’t- I just put him to bed when he’s drunk,” he protested. “He doesn’t…  _ talk _ to me, doesn’t confide in me.”

“No, but you’re helping him heal.” 

“I-”

“In the past few weeks he’s smiled more, drunk less. He listens to Lorenzo and has actually started having an active role in the Family. Francesco, you  _ are  _ helping him, whether he talks to you or not.”

It made sense, objectively. Francesco didn’t chide him, didn’t offer judgement. He just simply… was. A steady presence for Giuliano to lean against, should he want to. 

“I’m just trying to say thank you, and that it’s not…  _ entirely  _ impossible that your affections are unrequited.”

And with that bombshell, she simply watched, smiling faintly, as Francesco stammered through an excuse and fled.

( _ Or, rather, made a tactical retreat, as he would claim. Pazzi’s did not  _ flee.)

* * *

_ Thou Friend, whose presence on my wintry heart/Fell, like bright Spring upon some herbless plain;/How beautiful and calm and free thou wert _

_ _ \- From Laon and Cythna; or The Revolution of the Golden City, Percy Bysshe Shelley _ _

* * *

It was Francesco, this time, who was in the brawl. 

He had been with his brother at the tavern, pensively sipping at a wine as Guglielmo sought peace from his wife and crying child in the bottom of a flask, when they had been recognised. 

_ “Medici lovers _ .”

It had been spat, with vitriol, and Francesco had been unable to deny it. 

_ Yes,  _ he thought,  _ yes I rather think I am _ .

“You betrayed the man who raised you for a usurer and a useless  _ drunk _ that couldn’t handle losing a good fuck.”

The world fell silent, suddenly shrouded in red. Francesco’s fury boiled under his skin, a living, all-consuming thing, and the world slowed, time becoming as thick and dense as treacle, as it overcame him. He didn’t remember throwing the punch, didn’t remember much of the fight that followed, only wanting-  _ needing _ \- to rip that  _ fucker _ to pieces and stomp on the remains. 

_ “How dare you! _ ” he roared, fighting against Guglielmo’s arms that were tugging him away.  _ “Let me go _ ,” he snarled, but Guglielmo held firm. 

It was only when he had dragged him down the street, pulled him into an alley that Francesco had calmed- albeit only slightly. “You shouldn’t have stopped me,” he scowled. 

“Yes, he should have.”

Lorenzo. 

Francesco didn’t even look at him. “I know you’re all about seeking peace, Lorenzo, but sometimes a man’s honour should be fought for.”

“Even a useless drunk’s?” 

Giuliano sounded amused, too amused, and if Francesco hadn’t been so shocked that he was there- when did he get there? Had he been in the tavern with them? Had he heard it all? Had it even been Guglielmo that had pulled him away? Or had it been Giuliano?- he would have cursed at his apathy. 

“I-”

“Lorenzo, why don’t you take Guglielmo back to Bianca? I’m sure she’ll be looking for him by now,” Giuliano said mildly, eyes fixed on Francesco’s. 

If Lorenzo replied, Francesco didn’t hear it. All he was aware of were those blue eyes coming closer, the gentle palm against his cheek, tilting his head. 

“Now who’s the idiot, hm?” He tutted. 

“Certainly not me,” he replied automatically, mouth suddenly dry. Giuliano was so  _ close _ , and he was  _ sober _ . He could feel his chest touching his own, could feel the warmth. 

Giuliano’s lips quirked. “Perhaps you’re right,” he conceded absently, thumb now tracing arcs across Francesco’s cheek that made it hard for him to focus. He almost missed his next words. “After all, you’re not the one that grew fond of a Pazzi.”

He blinked, watching Giuliano’s smile twist into a satisfied smirk. “What?” He grabbed Giuliano’s wrist, tugging it from his face. “ _ What _ ?”

“I said,” he repeated slowly, tongue darting out to wet his lips, the bastard, and Francesco felt his eyes trace the movement, chest heaving under the sudden tension. “Perhaps you’re not as bad as you want us all to think." His lips curved into a gentle, knowing smile. "After all, you're awfully sweet when you think I won't remember." His eyes twinkle with a teasing mirth, and Francesco's breath gets caught in his throat.

He's left gaping like a fish.  “You mean-?”

“Yes, I rather think I do,” he agreed softly, and then his lips, warm and chapped and even better than Francesco could have ever imagined- not that he ever had!- were on his, his hands at Francesco’s waist. “So you really didn’t need to fight for my honour.”

Francesco laughed, feeling dizzy. His own hands were clutching at the front of Giuliano’s shirt, as if to keep him there. 

“See if I ever do it again, then,” he huffed, kissing Giuliano before he could reply. “Idiot.”

* * *

_ Beholde, o man! lyft up thyn eye and see/What mortall peyne I suffre for thi trespace./With pietous voys I crye and sey to the:/Beholde my woundes, behold my blody face,/Beholde the rebukes that do me so manace,/Beholde my enemyes that do me so despice,/And how that I, to reforme the to grace,/Was like a lambe offred in sacryfice... _

_ _ \- From the Testament of John Lydgate, John Lydgate _ _

* * *

  
  



End file.
